


He will be stained with it

by bloodscout



Series: The Friends of Asexuals, Bisexuals and other Crap [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Multi, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire takes a moment to be thoroughly distracted by Enjolras’ naked body – the hard muscle and hips skinnier than Grantaire had expected and those glorious shining scars.<br/>But then he looks down, and Combeferre has a hand resting on Enjolras’ waist, and it feels like Grantaire’s heart is being ripped out through his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He will be stained with it

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for bad metaphors  
> Also sorry I feel like this should have been like a bigger build up, but really I just wanted to start this pairing up ASAP as far as this 'verse is concerned.  
> An edited version of my Asexy April fic, originally posted on my [Tumblr](mishacollins-tongue.tumblr.com)

Courfeyrac was having a hard time getting jobs, and he got his third rejection of the day before the meeting began. He was noticeably down throughout the meeting, and Enjolras kept casting him concerned glances. Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras was not entirely heartless, and he called the meeting off early. Most people recognised that Courfeyrac and Enjolras needed to be alone, and so when Enjolras said they were done for they day, everyone left, even Combeferre. Grantaire took his time cleaning up, though, and he saw the beginning of the conversation.

 

“It’s okay, petit chat.” Enjolras said, as he came to kneel in front of Combeferre’s chair. “You’ll get a job soon.”

 

Courfeyrac didn’t meet Enjolras’ eyes. “I just feel like I’m not good enough. Like I’m too stupid to get a good job.”

 

Enjolras shook his friend lightly. “Hey, you know that isn’t true.” His fingers are light on Courfeyrac’s cheek, and the comfort radiating from that point of contact is almost visible, a warm light suffusing from Enjolras’ fingertips. “You can hold a debate with me any given day of the week. You’re not stupid.”

 

Courfeyrac’s face looked like he wasn’t convinced, so Enjolras hooked a finger under his chin, and pulled him up into a kiss. They looked so comfortable doing this, establishing a rhythm quickly enough. Grantaire was frozen, staring at the faces of the people in front of him. When Enjolras pulled away to lean his forehead against Courfeyrac’s, it was so fucking _intimate_ , and Grantaire felt something in him die. He ran out, the door banging behind him.

 

~~~

 

The day Enjolras’ grandmother dies, they are all at Joly’s house. Enjolras receives the call, his face stern while his father speaks tersely on the other end of the line. When the call is ended, Enjolras sinks to the ground, and appears to turn into marble – immovable, unfeeling, and achingly beautiful. Combeferre flows over to his friend, like natural magnetism between two opposite poles, and wraps him in familiar arms. Grantaire cannot look, and he turns to the seven faces of his friends, their eyes shining with the same excruciating empathy.

 

When Grantaire can bring himself to look back at the tableau of grief in front of him, Enjolras has bitten his lip to bleeding, and the blood that slips over his lips is as stark of a contrast as a spillage of red ink on stone.

 

Combeferre holds the motionless man to his chest, and kisses the top of his head until the blonde moves again. It’s late by then, and Joly lets them sleep in his room. No-one leaves until morning, because no-one can bring themselves to tear away from the group, each one with the same pain thrumming through all of their veins.

 

When they come out for breakfast, Enjolras and Combeferre are down to their boxers, Enjolras’ unbuttoned shirt hanging from his shoulders. Grantaire takes a moment to be thoroughly distracted by Enjolras’ naked body – the hard muscle and hips skinnier than Grantaire had expected and those glorious shining scars. Enjolras is unforgiving, and though everyone here will hold him in careful arms, though they will equally respect and worship him, Grantaire recognises the long-ingrained hardness, bred from years of society reshaping you into what you _should_ look like. Enjolras holds himself high, and the scars, like a fountain pen dragged across his pale skin, are his battle scars.

 

But then he looks down, and Combeferre has a hand resting on Enjolras’ waist, and it feels like Grantaire’s heart is being ripped out through his mouth.

 

~~~

 

Grantaire is well past “a little tipsy”, but not entirely shitfaced. He is around about “say stupid shit and start dumb fights”, but not quite at the “throw up in your friend’s grandmother’s ashes” point. Right now, being next to Enjolras is a very bad idea, but it was Jehan’s birthday party, so, inevitably, his golden god was there.

 

He pushes himself up into Enjolras’ personal space, even though he reeks of alcohol. Surprisingly, the other man doesn’t recoil at all.

 

“You’re dating Combeferre and Courfeyrac, aren’t you?” he accuses, loudly, brashly. People turn around.

 

Enjolras snorts, incredulous, and primly takes a sip from his drink. “God, no!” the blonde exclaims, an amused smile playing across his lips. Grantaire makes a move to protest – _but he kissed you but you slept with him but you love them more than me_ – but Enjolras shakes his head again. “No, we’re queerplatonics.” He unconsciously looks over to his two friends, and smiles. Courfeyrac winks back.

 

“Queerplatonic?” He asked, his drunken tongue struggling with the word. “Non-romantic.”

 

Enjolras nods. By this point, everyone is focused on the two at the front of the room, but neither of them have noticed, too surrounded by each other. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

 

Grantaire snorts. “Hardly.”

 

“Good. Then I’d like to ask you to dinner this weekend.” There is a command to Enjolras’ tone, as always, but his eyes are sincere.

 

Grantaire’s own eyes go unbelievably wide. He looks around, as if trying to determine if Enjolras was speaking to someone else. Then, finally, “Me?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, the picture of exasperated amusment. “No, Courfeyrac. Yes, you.”

 

Grantaire’s mouth goes dry, and his gaze darts down like a startled rabbit. He has waited so long for this. There is a shock of self doubt, a little voice whispering _you will fuck this up_ , and he is about to say no, but when he looks up, Enjolras is still staring at him, waiting for an answer. He looks straight at Enjolras, and there is no other answer. “Well… okay.”

 

It is not an answer so much as a breath, and not so much as a breath as the words that have been thrumming through Grantaire’s blood since the very beginning.

 

And, unceremonious as ever, Courfeyrac lets out a whoop, and Jehan shouts out “FUCKING FINALLY!”

 

A slow smile creeps across Enjolras’ lips, like ink dispersing in water. Grantaire feels like the same smile is bleeding through his skin. He will be stained with it.


End file.
